


Subtext: The Series

by Artsada



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dominance, Episode Related, Episode Tag, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Knotting, M/M, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 6: It all starts to make more – and less – sense after he gets Lydia’s text. After Boyd in the bath and Isaac under the bed and, obviously, Ethan in the abandoned motel room with the hand-saw, well it’s all just another game of supernatural Cluedo they’ve got to play through til the end.<br/>Of course, if they’re playing by the rule of threes then something isn’t exactly adding up here. Three werewolves, sure – but how does Stiles figure in all of this? </p><p>"Subtext" is a Teen Wolf Sterek Shadow Series updated with weekly episode tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "XXL", Or Inauspicious Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So the basic premise of this going forward will be to take the episode as written and pose the question: where would porn happen? The first tag (Chapter 1) has been incorporated from the original stand-alone XXL. I plan to do a tag after each episode (written and posted before the next… or before I see the next, at least :P), so joss'ing will probably happen regularly. Let’s just all agree to suspend our disbelief and/or need for real continuity; teen wolf viewers are used to that anyway, right? I’ll try not to contradict myself as much as possible, but this is in the end all fantasy.
> 
> Thanks to K for her continuing support of my perversion.
> 
> A/N2: If you're wondering what happened to Episode 1 - it kind of slipped past me, but I've remedied that with a selection of porns inspired by the what the fuckery that was the season premiere. See "Triptych".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Tag for Season 3, Episode 2 [incorporated from original stand-alone "XXL"].

 

It’s sometime long after midnight, and until a few seconds ago Stiles was enjoying a very pleasant dream in which he was snuggled up in a dark warm place, surrounded by happy furry bodies. Now, of course, he is sprawled out on a hardwood floor with a slightly sore head and a slightly concerning residual hard-on. But it’s not like he didn’t know wolves were a thing for him, right?

“What the fucking fuck!” he manages after he gathers himself together a little more. He’s on the floor – he _was_ on the couch – and there’s a very angry/mysterious/confused/really mostly obscured by the darkness someone standing over him.

“You fell asleep on my couch,” Derek says, switching on the desk lamp. And yes, this much is obvious.

“…Sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Derek is moving around the room, dropping keys in a basket and clearing forgotten blueprints off the table and other alarmingly domestic things. “It’s late,” he says, with a continuing flare for stating the obvious. “You should be at home in bed.”

Stiles is actually almost comfortable now on the floor; it’s quiet, and warm, and he feels strangely safe on the edges of that small pool of light. But… he was waiting up for a reason.

“How’d it go?” he asks as calmly as he can, but Derek is clearly tired, and there’s no Boyd or Erica so it’s clearly not _good_.

“You might want to wait until dawn before going out there.”

Shit. “That good, hey?” Stiles realises the whole lounging-wantonly-on-a-bear-skin-rug thing he’s rocking is probably not situation-appropriate, and pushes back up onto the couch. Then it occurs to him—

“ _Wait_ , is Scott--”

“Scott’s fine,” Derek says immediately, “We lost Boyd after the fight and decided it’s probably best to wait for day light to cool things down. Scott’s probably in bed asleep by now – where you should be.”

“I should be in Scott’s bed?” Stiles echoes with mock outrage and fluttering lashes “...Just what are you hinting at, sir?” Derek snorts, and Stiles feels a little tingle inside; he’s not sure the cause.

He does note though that there’s no mention of Erica, or the body, but wisely decides that in this case discretion is the best part of not getting his ass kicked. Besides, he can grill Scott about it tomorrow. Instead of asking the questions he wants to then, he just scrubs at the sleep in his eyes with the heel of his palm and runs that hand up through still-surprisingly-long hair. A beat later he looks up and Derek’s leaning against the table, watching him; dark eyes, dark mood, in a dark space.

“What happened to Peter, anyway?” Derek asks, deep-voiced in the quiet. It’s only then that Stiles realises they’re alone here, and suddenly it all feels somehow… intimate.

“How the hell should I know?” He says, and feels his heart beat tick up, playing for time. “Last thing I remember we were just sitting around, braiding each others’ hair and waiting for a boy to call.”

Jokes, he’s got ‘em! And he’s trying to think up some sort of riff on ‘my, what big teeth you have,’ but Derek is a real wolf, and this is effectively his den, and Stiles was never very close to his grandmother anyhow. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe I should go.”

Derek rolls his eyes like that isn’t exactly what he’s been saying since Stiles fell off his couch. “I _said_ you can wait until sunrise. It’s not exactly safe out there.” There's a strange kind of tension in the air, anticipation or apprehension or something altogether different. Derek's body language is telegraphing 'casual' as strongly it probably can, but his eyes are dark in the shadowy light and everything is getting all together a little intense.

It’s not exactly safe _in here_ , Stiles thinks (but, mercifully, doesn’t say). Contradictions, contraditictions, and Stiles is beginning to feel out of his depth.

“Sure, of course,” he finally gets out. “But I should probably just wait in the jeep -- dawn’s not too far off now.”

He feels hunted, disarmed, and it's not really about the big bad teeth - not about the wolf, but the man. He’s trying for casual and up-beat, but it’s a pretty thin cover because he’s already sort of sidled himself off the couch and feels confident enough to turn his back when he’s made it almost all the way to the door.

“Hold on,” Derek calls from behind him, and Stiles feels a peculiar lurching inside.

“What?” He turns frankly the least amount possible, just a swivel of head and neck, and then honestly wants to just close his eyes.

Derek is standing in the middle of room now, pointing at a small dark square on the floor by his feet. “You forgot something,” he says.

Well, _fuck_. It’s the novelty-sized condom boomerang, comin’ back around again.

“Funny story,” he says, caught in a trap of his own making, and not for the first time. “That’s not actually mine.”

But Derek’s prowling, stalking, forward, and suddenly having the door at his back doesn’t really reassure Stiles at all. “What, you’re just holding onto it for a friend?”

There’s a rumble in the air that may or not be from an approaching storm. Derek bends and scoops the packet up in one fluid move, holding in out in front like a sword or a shield or maybe just a puny piece of latex, and keeps steadily approaching.

“Something like that,” Stiles breathes, because they’re face to face now, chest to chest, and Derek’s got him back up against the wall like he’s going to keep him there, no matter how. The issue is, Stiles is still kinda half-hard from his Big Boy dream, and… well, humiliation is another thing that kind of works for him. That doesn’t mean he’s going to take this intimidation shit lying down though.

“What exact kind of fuck do you give about my safe sex practices?” He spits, or maybe kind of splutters. “And by what fucking right?” See, he always swears when he feels cornered, and this is about as cornered as he’s ever been.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and honest-to-fucking-God bops him on the nose with the stupid thing, “maybe I just wanna be your friend.”

If Stiles were a cartoon wolf, his eyes would be popping out of his head, but then, again, there’s only one wolf here, and yes there was the stalking and the sort-of growling, but that can’t mean what he thinks… can it?

Derek flips the condom packet between his fingers, strokes his thumb over the embossed XXL without actually looking.

“Or maybe,” he says, bringing the other hand up to press against the wall next to Stiles’ head, “I just really want to suck your cock.”

Well, that certainly clears things up.

“Holy shit.” There’s definitely no ‘semi’ about his hard-on now, and frankly Stiles, like any other healthy teenaged boy, would do just about anything to get a hot wet mouth around his dick. Derek hasn’t asked him to do anything for it… yet.

“You’re a big boy, right?” Derek says, and sweet Jesus that is an actual twinkle in his eye. “You can handle it.”

Stiles almost chokes on that, and can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry or fucking come in his pants _right the fuck now_. Then Derek’s tucking the condom down into Stiles’ back pocket and, yes, that is definitely a feel being copped. It also happens to be about as far as Stiles has gotten with any human being to date, which makes any decision left to him pretty damn easy to make.

“Fuck it,” he says, because his capacity for complex sentences is inversely proportionate to the size of his erection. “Do it.”

Derek fucking _laughs_ , and that is a strange thing to hear. Stiles chooses to count it as a win, and not a vicious slur against his manhood.

Derek doesn’t really seem to need any encouragement at this point anyway, or even much in the way of participation. He’s still got one hand pressed against the wall, caging Stiles in, but the other is tracing a leisurely path down his chest. Stiles is breathing fast – too fast – but he was never the asthma kid, so he’s happy to just sit back and revel in the slight euphoria hyperventilation brings. Derek’s stroking him, just a light tease of fingernails against his chest and Stiles wants to tell him to just cut the foreplay already but he’s kind of _really, really_ enjoying the way Derek is nuzzling at his neck.

“I smelled it on you,” he says into the hollow below Stiles’ left ear. “I came home and soon as I walked in the door I knew you were there, air thick with the stink of your horny boy slick and your need for a cock or a cunt or any fucking stranger who might have come through that door before me.”

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. It’s not quite true but it’s something of what he’s feeling right now and it’s hot, it’s so fucking hot he might explode.

“Yeah.” Derek’s clearly not playing around anymore, if he ever was, because the claws are out and his t-shirt is never going to see another laundry day because it’s falling in shreds to the floor. “I gave you the chance to get out,” Derek says, “said all good boys should be in bed.”

There’s a pounding in his chest, in his head now to match his cock, and he says, “I always was pretty good at being bad.”

He’s rewarded by a growl and a playful bite to his ear, wet hot sucking kisses with just the edge of those big bad teeth down his neck, tongue in that hollow and hot breath like Derek’s going to devour him whole and he’s going to like it, come back begging for more.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles whisper-whines, because his mamma taught him right.

“Yeah.”

Derek’s got both hands spread across his stomach now, pushing the small of Stiles’ back firmly against the wall, holding him together. The thumb of one hand is stroking, playful almost, around Stiles’ belly button; around and around and in like the fucking tease he is. Then, ever so slowly, Derek’s drawing four thin white lines on Stiles’ belly, dragging those wicked nails down until they’re tucked just under the waistband of his pants. Derek gives his belly a final fond little pat and sinks to his knees, predatory and intense.

“So does the contents match the description?” Derek teases, lips skating along that sensitive line of flesh just above his pants.

And, see, Stiles has watched a lot – but not, like, a weird amount – of porn, and while he’s clearly not packing something the size of a baby’s arm in his briefs, he’s never felt the need to shrink from the spotlight or prying eyes in the showers, if you know what I mean. Right now though, he is as least extra extra hard - harder than he’s ever been - and it’s a fucking miracle that he hasn’t creamed those briefs yet. There’s something insane about standing there, looking down his own body at Derek Hale on his knees; Stiles feels raw and bold and powerful, even though he is clearly not the one in control here.

His hands aren’t actually shaking - though it feels, _fuck,_ like his whole body is -- just vibrating infinitesimally in place – when he slides one hand down under Derek’s burning gaze, slips a thumb under the band and pops the top button. “What do you need, a written invitation?”

Derek slides the zipped down with his fucking _teeth_. Thank God those hands are holding his hips down, because Stiles is about to embarrass himself here for reals. All there is between them now are Stiles’ too-tight-tighty-whities ( _laundry day_ , okay?) and his cock is stretching them out obscenely, bulging out from between those spread metal teeth and it feels fucking dangerous and all Stiles wants is _more_.

There’s this wet spot, right where the head of his cock is rubbing – aching, leaking – and Derek’s nose is practically twitching. If he had a tail, any bets that’d be twitching too. Instead, he’s pressing his open mouth against that spot - hot breath, wet tongue – and he’s _scenting._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says, “fucking _please_.”

And thankfully Derek doesn’t say anything, just hooks his hands under the waistband of pants and briefs and yanking both aggressively, demandingly, down his thighs until they get a little stuck from where Stiles is kind of uncooperatively trying to spread his legs wide at the same time. Then his ass is pressed against the cool metal of the industrial door and his cock is hanging out, drooling like it’s really fucking exciting to join the party and bouncing a little with every beat of his rabbiting heart. Derek’s digging the nails of both hands into the tense meat of Stiles’ ass, kneading maybe unconsciously and pulling his in against his face. Stiles doesn’t even understand how he’s still standing, let alone how it is actually possible that there’s a fucking alpha werewolf on his knees rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ fat throbbing cock. Because shit, yeah, the feel of stubble on that sensitive skin is bright pleasure-pain and his ass is clenching, thighs shaking with the need to get inside.

Derek is sliding his wet red mouth down the shaft, flat of his tongue silky-rough and shocking, til he’s got his nose buried in Stiles’ public hair and he’s sucking at Stiles’ tight twitching balls with delicate care.

“Yeah, yeah, _Derek_ ,” he’s chanting, and all his wants to do is fist his fingers in Derek’s hair and just fucking fuck his face, take what he wants. God, yah, Derek’s eyes are closed like this is _bliss,_ lips stretched wide around Stiles’ sack, and it’s hot and wet but shit it’s not enough. Stiles has his hands fisted at his sides, digging his nails into his palms so he doesn’t reach for it, ruin it with grabby hands, but he can’t help it anymore and he’s whining (high pitched and animal), pounding those fists against the door. “ _Suck it_ ,” he says – begs, cries – “fucking _suck_ it.”

And Derek just straight-up licks his cock like a fucking lollipop, root to tip, finally gets his mouth on the head and it’s _filthy_. He’s been spitting precome for what feels like hours and his cock is wet, sticky with it, and Derek’s lips are already shiny with his slick, thick lashes fanning his cheeks as he sucks it in, lips tight and just fucking right under the crown. His cheeks are hollowing and Stiles feels like Derek’s trying to suck the fucking marrow out of his bones, just perfect wet suction and a tongue in his slit asking for more. No hands, just his dick in Derek’s mouth and all Stiles can think is how fucking huge it looks like this, just the head splitting Derek’s lips wide, the sick perfect shape of it pressing at his cheek. Looks like he wants to choke himself on that dick, and Stiles wants to slide deep, fuck a space for himself inside and watch Derek take it all.

Can’t help the shudder of his hips then, needs to slam them against Derek’s face, feel the slap of his balls against that stupid fucking square-cut chin. And Derek is moaning, growling, taking it - tongue rolling against the shaft and spit running unchecked out the corners of his white-stretched lips. Stiles is grunting, humping his hips forward and yes, _fucking yes_ , screwing his way down the back of Derek’s throat till he’s choking, swallowing, digging his nails into Stiles’ ass like this is exactly what he fucking wants.

Stiles feels like he never has before, something dirty and sticky and pure, and he feels like his whole body, all his blood and every nerve and every thought is in his cock, and his cock is fucking Derek Hales’ face.

Stiles can make out Derek’s eyes now, looking right at his face, and there’s a challenge in that gaze, in the way one of his fingers is sliding down between Stiles’ cheeks, just tickle-teasing at his hole. Everything he has is clenching and he’s out of control making noises like he’s broken because he fucking is; something’s breaking inside. His knees are shaking, and he’s kind of leaning his weight against Derek’s shoulders, and he can feel it coming, like a fucking runaway train to his balls and there’s no stopping, no warning, no coming back.

There is nothing like the feeling, like the sight, of his cock, his come in Derek’s mouth. The first spurt, bright-sparking liquid fire in his veins and right down Derek’s throat – he swallows, slides that fucked-out mouth back up to the head and he’s humming with it, taking the undulating roll of Stiles’ hips, and not letting him go. Then Derek fucking looks him right in the eye, opens his mouth and the next pump is sticky-white across his tongue, painting lips and check and chin and Derek looks like he loves it, like he’s fucking _grateful_ for Stiles’ come.

Then Stiles is done; leaning back against the wall and kind of amazed that his legs are even still holding him, amazed at it all, and Derek is still kneeling there, licking his lips.   

“I--” he manages, but doesn’t really have anything to say.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and how can a man smirk like that with someone else’s come on his face?

Derek pushes up to his feet, body warm and crowding close and there’s a strange look in his eye, not something Stiles could have anticipated. With almost tender hands Derek tugs up his pants, tucks him soft and sticky back in, and puts him to rights. Thank god for layers, because his t-shirt is still in tatters on the floor but his over-shirt is mostly okay.

“It’s light outside,” Derek says, but he’s still resting his hand – is that tentative? – against Stiles’ hip.

Fuck it, Stiles thinks. “What do you want?”

One corner of Derek’s mouth lifts like he can’t help himself and he’s leaning close again so Stiles must have said something right.

“I told you,” Derek says, break warm and close against his face, “I just want to be friends.”

Then his nose is sliding, momentarily awkward, against Stiles’ and there are lips pressed against his, a little rough and very wet, and Derek’s tongue is slick sliding, inevitable, irrefutable, against his and he can taste himself, bitter and real, in that kiss.

It’s pretty simple, and so sharply good, that Stiles is more than a little disappointed when Derek doesn’t seem to want anything more. Without anything more really said, Stiles is out the door and in the jeep and in his bed. Just an hour or two later and he should be getting up for school, but instead he’s pressing his nails against the mouth-shaped bruise on his hip, fisting his cock and sinking too-blunt teeth into his swollen lips.


	2. "Tab A, Slot B" or Unicorns, and Other Fairytale Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode tag to Season 3, Episode 3.

 

So Stiles needs to get de-virginized, _stat_.

He doesn’t really care how it happens, but he assumes that as long as Tab A and Slot B meet in some sort of sexy configuration he’s going to be okay. There’s a possibility that same-sex blow jobs qualify, but traditionally some more… permanent penetration is required. _Traditionally_ , there’s a hymen involved, and Stiles has been neither breachee nor breacher of any thing like that. Basically, Stiles is an open-minded guy, and when it comes down to it he values his hide a lot more than any remaining shreds of pride. Also, it’s not like he hasn’t been trying to cash in his V-Card for a while now, just that under these particular circumstances he feels both that his chances of getting someone to agree to do the taking are greatly multiplied, and his care-factor about who that someone _is_ , being inversely correlated, is quickly approaching zero. He also (thanks brain) has some Calc homework to do, so it’d be great if he could get this thing out the way quickly… and, you know, survive and everything.

Which is how he finds himself back at Derek’s converted-warehouse apartment, sometime long after the Night That Was Never Ending and the Dawn of Uncomfortable Realizations, but actually still less than twentry-four hours later. On one hand, it might be a little weird that this is the first place he thought to go, but on the other hand: Derek totally gave him a real-life blow job last night. He’s still pretty sure he didn’t imagine that part. The rest of… everything, well, he’s not so sure.

One moment he and Heather were making out in her basement, then she disappeared and he got kind of molested by a terminally mopey werewolf, and the next moment she’s dead. It’s kind of overwhelming; not to mention the whole sacrificial price on his head.

Stiles likes being alive – it’s shitty sometimes, but he still really likes it a lot – so he screws his courage to the sticking point and _rat-a-tat-tats_ on Derek’s door.

There’s some fumbling-thudding noises from inside, like maybe Derek actually just fell off his own couch ( _ironic_ , and hilarious to boot). A few seconds later Derek’s voice comes through the door, close and deep with sleep.

“What do you want?”

“It’s Stiles,” Stiles says, because he’s straight-forward like that.

There follows the umpteenth million weighty pause of the last twenty-four hours, and the _duh_ is clearly implied.

Right, _scent._ The many and special gifts of the wolf constantly amaze. Derek probably never steps in dog shit and doesn’t realize until he’s tracked it all over the carpet. Not that he has carpet on which to track. Anyway --

Obviously, then, Derek already knew it was him and just doesn’t really care. So, as loud and obnoxiously as he can, Stiles shouts, “If I ask real nice, will you fuck me in the ass?”

Derek gets the big metal door open pretty quick, but he doesn’t greet Stiles with the enthusiasm one might expect, no; he just grabs Stiles by the shirt and hauls him inside, eyebrows doing a scruffy dance of moral outrage.

“The _neighbours--_ ” he starts, chastising, but Stiles interrupts.

“Do you even have neighbours?” Because he’s pretty sure this warehouse is only classed as ‘converted’ because Derek somehow managed to illegally hook up both electricity and cable. Home sweet home.

“Well if I did,” Derek growls, “they’d sure as fuck be gossiping about me at the monthly tenant meetings now.”

Derek is evidently a very private person -- and also a crazy one, but none of this is news.

“Right.” Stiles disentangles himself from Derek’s claws and takes the time to notice the whole seasons of tired and mellow shirtlessness thing he’s got going on.

“Are you… okay?” he asks. He doesn’t really know how to do this. His mom was always the one who would force him to open up; conversations about ‘feelings’ with his Dad tend to just end in puns. Anyway, his ‘feelings’ right now are pretty much a confused muddle of fear of mortal peril, guilty lust, and a general fucking frustration with the world. Also, the hair on Derek’s chest and arms is dark – soft-looking – and very distracting.

Derek scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair, and walks back over to the couch. “I’m fine.” He’s still wearing a pair of pretty sketchy-looking jeans (though it would be awesome to see what passes for PJs in the Hale household) but seems too tired to be uncomfortable.

“Is Cora…” Stiles makes a vague, hand-wavey gesture, “Around?” Stiles personally doesn’t have a lot of experience with siblings cramping one’s style, but he imagines a sister returned from the dead might be a lot to deal with – and possibly throw a spanner in the whole Get Stiles Laid works.

“Seems like she has her own place to go back to,” Derek says, and the hint of bitterness in that is pretty painful to hear. “We’re going to--” he pauses with his mouth open for a second, like he’s not sure of the word, “Talk.” Bares his teeth around it, as if it’s a threat (or he is).

Stiles really hopes she isn’t evil. Derek frankly doesn’t have a lot of family left, and considering that is mostly Peter, well, he needs to take what he can get.

“Right.” Stiles is feeling fidgety, maybe forgot to take his pill this morning with everything going on. “So, hey, while you guys were out playing werewolf chasey, a few more bodies popped up.”

Derek leans his head against the back of the couch and sighs. “I got a text from McCall mentioning something like that. It wasn’t Boyd or Cora.”

“No,” Stiles says, serious for once. “They were garrotted, bludgeoned, and had their throats slit to top it off.”

Derek’s head snaps back up, and Stiles can see it in his eyes – he knows what that means.

“Yeah,” Stiles grits, sets his teeth in a rictus grin, “Surprise! The psychokiller cultists have come to town again.”

Derek doesn’t seem to appreciate the humour, though Stiles himself isn’t exactly feeling the funny right now either. He leans forward, bare elbows on his knees and says, “Or maybe were already here.”

The spectre of Peter is large between them, lurking in shadows of the room. If there was a mood, it would definitely be flopping around and gasping for breath now. Fuck it.

“They were all virgins, too.”

Stiles is rather forcefully reminded that just yesterday he was alone in this room with Peter, playing the Scooby ganger left behind again. If he is behind this, and it seems like he must be connected somehow, then Stiles had literally been laid out before him like a lamb to the slaughter (or a virgin on the alter).

Derek’s looking at him now, with contemplative eyes, and Stiles feels his gaze like a warning tingle at the base of his spine.

“How many?” he asks.

“Three that we know of so far.”

Derek is on his feet, twitching like he wants to pace, wants to prowl and bay. “There’ll be more.”

Stiles waits a beat, waits to see it Derek’s going to get there on his own, but in the end decides just to jump right in. “Yeah,” he says, “and I’d rather not be one of them.”

Derek tilts his head, like a dog scenting the air. Stiles tells himself he has no reason to be ashamed, but just can’t stop the frantic beating of his heart. From sacrificial lamb, he’s starting to feel like a rabbit on the run; can almost feel the gnash of sharp teeth at his tail.

“Scott, Allison, Lydia: they’re all prime examples of America’s degenerate youth. This newest power hungry nut, who ever that might be, isn’t going to get them,” Stiles says, pauses -- “Though herpes might.”

“So you’re marked for death,” Derek says, settling back on the couch and putting his feet up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. “What do you want me to do about it?”

He seems pretty straight-faced when he says it, but he’s eyeing Stiles with something that might be interest. Resting a hand on his tight stomach, Derek holds Stiles’ eyes, opens his mouth just a little, and runs a pink tongue along the edge of his teeth.

Such a shame he left his red hooded cloak at home today --- Stiles feels woefully underdressed for the occasion. His brain is reduced to flail.

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and manages to sort of pout and glare at the same time. “Well you didn’t seem to have any objection to ‘helping a friend out’ last night.”

Derek’s answering grin shows every last one of his teeth, canine’s glinting in the filtered light from the window. His voice rumbles in his chest when he says, “I was bored. You were there.”

Stiles is outraged on his penis’s behalf but, honestly, if he was used then it was willingly done. “So I guess that’s a no then,” he says, pissed off and shaking. He turns to go, thoughts already scrambling to what the fuck he’s going to do next.

“I didn’t say that.” Derek doesn’t even get up off the couch, just waits for him to turn around. “Maybe I don’t want the pressure--”

“What pressure?” Stiles says. “No pressure!”

Derek’s eyebrow starts to climb again and Stiles feels desperation closing in. “It’s your first time,” Derek says, simple. “You’d do better with someone your own age. Why don’t you ask one of your little friends?”

Besides being more than a little offended at the overwhelming condescension, Stiles doesn’t really have an answer for that. Lydia and Allison are probably out, but maybe Scott – or even Danny – would be willing to suck it up and do him if he begged hard enough. This just seemed… easier isn’t the word. Better, maybe.   

“I don’t… want them,” he says. They might be the hardest words he’s had to say in a long time, but Derek doesn’t seem impressed.

“Yeah?” he says, “and what do you want?” They’re both getting tense now, something like anger or frustration crackling in the air.

“Hey,” Stiles shouts, fed up and stung, “You started this!”

“But you’re the one who got to finish it,” Derek growls, “because if I do this -- if you _give_ yourself to me, then you’re mine.” The hair on his arms is standing on end, and his eyes are more than faintly red. “Alphas don’t _share_.”

Stiles’ cock gives a traitorous jerk but his stomach is shrinking in on itself. “Where was this warning label when you were sucking my dick?” He asks, knee-jerk and sharp, then basically wants to go die in a hole.

“You weren’t offering then,” Derek says. He visibly forces himself to relax, shifting back on the couch again and spreading his legs, but his jeans tighten across his hips when he does, and reveal a tell-tale bulge in his lap.

Stiles finds himself unconsciously licking his lips. “So now I’m offering,” he says, because it’s inevitable. “And I’ve gotta ask, why do _you_ think you’re the right person for the job?” Doesn’t really know what he’s saying, why he’s playing for time: he wants it, and he’s got no better choice.

Derek looks him dead in the eye. “I could tear your throat out with my teeth and make you like it.”

Stiles’ mouth immediately goes dry. So maybe those cherished death threats of old weren’t so much _threats_ as… come-ons? Or maybe this is just threat and promise both. Stiles finds he really doesn’t care.

“I’m going to spread you out on my bed and lick you til you cry. You’re gonna be begging for my cock, and when it’s in you, finally, you’re going to come screaming my name.” Derek crosses heavily muscled arms over his chest. “’Cos you were born to be a bitch.”

And, okay, so it seems like this is on then. Stiles forces himself to smirk. “Well, hello snarkiness, my old friend,” he says casually, mouth quirked.

“I’m not joking,” Derek says, deep and intense. “Not playing around.” He holds out his hand and curls his fingers in. “ _Come_.”

“If anyone’s the fucking dog in this--” Stiles mutters under his breath, but stomps around the coffee table anyway; shuts up when Derek gives him a _look._

“ _Sit_ ,” Derek says clearly, and Stiles wants to punch someone in the face. But he does.

The edge of the coffee table is hard against his ass and there’s not enough room for his legs so their feet and knees are almost touching.

The sit there, just staring at each other, for a moment. “Do you want to suck my cock?” Derek asks. “Or do you want me to suck yours first?”

And that… is that a question? Stiles balls are already tight with need and it’ll be a fucking miracle if he makes it to either one, but he supposes his chances of getting to the actual deed are increased by being a gentleman. So he chokes out, “Uh. Could I-- I could do you?”

Derek cocks his head. “Liar.”

Stiles is prepared for Derek to surge forward then, or maybe slap him or something, but he just edges his hips a little further down the couch like he’s giving himself some extra room.

Stiles is stuck, confused, with his mouth hanging open -–- but that might also be because he’s struggling a bit for air.

“Take off your pants,” Derek says, calm and cool as can be.

Stiles feels like he may just bust out of them without any help. He’s up for a challenge though, and Derek didn’t ask him to do a sexy strip or anything, just take it off. It’s also a fact that Derek’s pretty much seen it all before, and that this is almost certainly leading to someone getting their dick sucked, so Stiles is willing to go with the flow.

He reaches down to undo his laces, toe off his shoes and socks. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he pulls his shirts off over his head. What the fuck, right? The aim of the game is to get naked, and he doesn’t have so many t-shirts he can afford to have them all get ripped off. Though that was very hot. Stiles goes for his zip; it makes a ridiculously loud sound in the empty quiet of the room, and he almost catches himself, distracted by watching for a reaction on Derek’s face.

It’s then that Derek surges forward, plants a hand in the center of Stiles’ chest and forces him down with his back against the wooden coffee table; hooks his hands in Stiles’ pants and pulls it all down and off until Stiles is splayed naked and hard in front of him.

“So it’s gonna be like that, hey?” Stiles shifts awkwardly and his naked ass squeaks against the veneer of the table. “Wham, bam, thank you young man.”

Derek slaps his thigh to make him keep them open as he wriggles. “You may have the sense of humour of a fourth grader but you’re not that young.”

In one fluid muscular motion he bends his neck and sucks Stiles’ cock into his mouth ( _look ma, no hands!)_. Stiles almost swallows his tongue, but manages somehow to survive, and thank God he does because the feel of Derek’s mouth on his dick is even better than he remembered –- and that’s saying a lot. Derek’s holding his hips down against the table so he can’t thrust, digging his human nails in just a little and kneading at the upper curve of Stiles’ ass.

Derek sucks him all the way down, lips kissing his stomach just once, then all the way up and off with wet _pop_ ; kisses the tip, curls his tongue and sucks just the head back between tight lips. The head of his dick presses against the roof of Derek’s mouth, wet-hot tongue rolling under it and against that bundle of nerves under the ridge. Derek pulls back, licks his lips, drags the flat of his tongue over the slit, then follows the big vein on the underside all the way down to the root.

“Shit,” Stiles grunts, “yeah.” Can’t help it; can’t help the way the muscles of his belly and thighs are tight with strain and his ass is flexing because all he wants to do is thrust up into that hot wet mouth but Derek doesn’t even seem to be _trying_ to hold him down. Just is -- so easy.

Then suddenly Derek’s hands are gone. Stiles is left spluttering and waving in the breeze as Derek reverses and plants himself back on the couch again.

“I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings here,” he says. His lips are distracting - slick-shiny, wet - and his voice is cracked. “I’m going to let you come now, to take the edge off, but that doesn’t mean we’re done.” He’s still got his jeans on, and the way he’s rubbing sweaty palms against his thighs just doesn’t seem to fit with the solid, uncompromising command in his voice. “You chose this, and I’m gonna make you show me how bad you want it; make you come on my fingers, on my tongue, and then on my dick.”

The bulge of that did in his jeans is starting to look really fucking huge and Stiles is man enough to admit he’s a little scared. The promise of imminent orgasms is still enough to make him literally sit up though (but not to beg, yet), his hard-on slapping sticky-wet against his stomach as he does.

Derek watches him, considering. Moves his hands, slow deliberate flex, to the back of the couch and says, “I want you to sit on my lap.”

And, see, this is the first time Stiles has ever actually been naked in front of another person (outside of the locker room context), and he’s disconcerted to learn how difficult it is to hide his reactions with his dick on display. The traitorous thing jerks against the tight plain of his stomach, and a clear string of precome beaded from the slit snaps back.

“What,” he chokes (tells himself it’s laughter), “Just climb on up?” Closes his eyes but his brain is buzzing, big pink neon letters on the back of his eyelids screaming _SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A WEREWOLF_.

Derek gives this weirdly liquid roll of his spine and hips, settles deeper into the couch. “You can call me ‘Santa’ if it makes it easier.”

Stiles feels like he might be hallucinating, hysteria setting in. “No,” he says, “that definitely does not make it easier.” But he’s eyeing Derek’s lap and trying to figure exactly how he’s supposed to climb on without look like the naked idiot he is. Cool man, be cool.

Stiles isn’t exactly a little guy, and he’s still mainly all limbs at this point in his life, so ‘cool’ is a pretty tall order right now. He gives it a shot though, and feels better when he levers himself up and realises that his dick is now pretty much on a level with Derek’s mouth again -- and Derek is definitely watching. He doesn’t have a lot of room to work in but he manages to get one knee up on to the couch, and then the other, and somehow he’s straddling Derek’s thighs, ass basically in his lap. No side saddle bullshit for _him_.

Before Stiles can start to feel weird, Derek takes lowers his arms off the back of the couch and settles his hands at Stiles’ hips. Their faces are pretty close together, but Stiles is actually a bit taller like this. Derek strokes a hand up his spine and presses him _in_ , back curving until he reflexively throws back his chin and Derek can lower his head to taste.

“Do you know how I could tell you were untouched?” Derek breathes, hot and wet against his neck. “Because you smell _pure_. No one’s marked you with their scent, with their spit and their teeth and their come.” _Holy fuck_ , Stiles thinks -- moans a little and bares his throat, _is that what’s going to happen here?_

Derek runs the edge of his teeth against that delicate skin, scalds him with a wet brush of tongue. “Any idiot can tell you’re under Scott’s protection, but he’s Beta, not _born_. Can’t mark you like a man,” Derek says, sinks his teeth in and sucks. “Like a _wolf_.”

This is definitely the most words he’s ever heard Derek Hale utter in a single instance, and it is almost as shocking as it is fucking _hot_. Derek is a biter as well as a scratcher and Stiles knows he’s gonna be wearing reminders of this for the next week and a half. Thinks about having to look at that hickey when he’s shaving or brushing his teeth, thinks about collared shirts and scarves and the chance that someone might see and wonder; feels those thoughts like a shot of electricity to the spine, setting his nerves on fire.

Derek gets a hand up and grips his fingers in Stiles’ hair, tugs his head back and presses a kiss against the wings of his collar bone. Bending him back like that, Derek spits in his other hand and slides it down in the space between their bodies until he can wrap slick fingers tight around Stiles’ neglected dick.

If Derek wanted this over quick like he says, he could have just sucked Stiles’ brain out through his dick. Or, hell, fucked him right there on the table. There’s definitely something else going on here; Derek seems to be getting off on touching him all over, tasting his sweat and spreading the pearling slick of his precome all around.

Stiles wants that too, though. Wants to know what Derek tastes like, how he sounds, whether he likes his nipples bitten or kissed, or both. Stiles feels wild with it, this want, and it has nothing to do with Derek’s fist squeezing slick and perfect at his dick. Stiles sits up a little higher on his knees, rounding his back so he can hump his cock into Derek’s hand and bend to catch his lips at the same time. Derek doesn’t seem to view kissing as an essential part of sex, and frankly he’s just _wrong._

Derek’s mouth is open with lightly panting breath, and he jerks noticeably when Stiles flicks his tongue out along Derek’s fat lower lip but keeps up the rhythm of his strokes. Stiles can’t resist sucking on that lip, doesn’t want to deprive himself, and then their tongues are sliding wet and softly intimate together as Derek lets him in. They’re pressed forehead to forehead and space inside the circle of their bodies is sultry with heat and desire. Stiles brings hind hands up to cup Derek’s jaw, trace the curve of his ear and card through his hair. And then wants to slap himself for being such a girl.

“Make me come,” he breathes against Derek’s lips.

Derek squeezes his ass but like the evil creature of the night he is stalls the hand on Stiles’ dick, just holding him gently in that moment.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles swears, barely loud enough to be heard. Derek must accept it though, because he starts up a rhythm entirely designed to get Stiles off in the shortest time possible. He’s milking Stiles’ dick fast and steady, squeezing and twisting and rubbing his thumb over the head so Stiles knows he has permission – that Derek wants him to come.

Stiles lets his head hand down, staring at Derek’s hand milking his cock, at his own naked thighs spread wide and slutty over Derek’s stil-clothed lap. He wants it so bad, feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for a little relief. Everything in him tenses, writhing at the feeling like an elevator, a syringe, a slide of ecstasy rising inside him; tight hot pleasure drawing up from his balls and his up his spine until he can taste it in his throat, until he breaks and white waves of release crash over his whole body.

He just curls there for a minute in Derek’s lap, collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, or a dummy without a hand up its… Right. When he opens his eyes, forehead still pressed sweaty and hot against Derek’s chest, he sees Derek’s hand still squeezing gently at his spent cock, playing with the mess of Stiles’ come.

_Nnnnnnnnggg._

Stiles does not have enough remaining brain function to contemplate this. Derek doesn’t give him long, anyway, before Stiles is unceremoniously dumped off his lap and over on to the couch. The material is kind of scratchy and cold against Stiles’ naked ass, but Derek once again seems pretty unsympathetic to his plight.

Freed of his sixteen year old boy-shaped blanket, Derek springs up and wipes his hand on the back of his jeans. Turning, he raises his head like a pointer on the trail, treats Stiles to a darkly impatient look and says, “Bed.”

While Stiles is still trying to get his limbs to work, Derek’s off and through a doorway at the back that Stiles never really noticed before. He’s starting to get cold, naked and alone on the couch, his soft cock lying sticky against his thigh. Walking naked across the room and through the dark doorway doesn’t really make him feel any more comfortable though, but he does it –- he is still aiming to get laid.

Through the doorway everything is darker; night-time in an unknown hallway. To his left though is a room with low light and what he recognises when his eyes adjust as a big fuck off bed.

So this is Derek’s bedroom. The heart of his den. Stiles feels like an intruder in this space but there’s nothing all that special about it; the room is plainly decorated in warm wood and cold metal, nothing much in it but that over-large bed with its neat navy sheets. Stiles steps a little closer, cautious, and hears the tread of soft feet behind him as the door closes.

“Get on the bed.”

Derek’s voice is soft but carries from behind him, a strangely dampened sound, and Stiles realises that this room has no windows and only the one door, like a safe room (or one designed to keep something _in_ ). Derek doesn’t need to be chained at the full moon – the wolf is an essential part of who he is – but maybe this is where he comes when he doesn’t _want_ to control the beast.

Stiles knows that Derek is watching him, could treat it like a tease and saunter forward – pose himself on the bed. Fuck that though, honestly, because Stiles is not a pet or pro: he’s here for _him_. So instead of slinking over like a sulky twink he does a little running leap and belly flops, arms spread, on to the bed. He Indulges himself with a full body wriggle (because _mmm_ , _comfy_ ), lets out an obnoxious sigh of contentment, and doesn’t bother to turn his head.

“Impressive display,” Derek says, voice closer now, and then the bed dips beneath his weight.

It’s then Stiles realises that he’s kind of in a vulnerable position here, naked and spread eagle with ass in the air. His inner slut is clearly coming to the fore here whether he likes it or not. The broad weight of Derek’s hand startles him when it falls, but if Stiles was anticipated a smack he doesn’t quite know whether to be disappointed by the gentle caressing pat he receives.

Stiles is a little skinny, and he’s still got room to grow, but one thing he knows is that he has a nice ass. It’s smooth and firm and pert as a fucking bubble, and all the drag queens at Jungle told him it was his best asset. Feeling cheeky, he gives a little wiggle and gets a warning press of claws for his trouble. Derek is still clearly in control though because a moment later he’s dragging human-sharp nails over the curve if Stiles’ cheek and settling his knees between Stiles’ wide-spread legs.

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” Derek asks, low and rough. Slides his thumb between Stiles’ cheeks.

And, _no_ … the answer is ‘no’, Stiles has never actually fingered his own ass – though he’s thought about it, and watched it happen to other guys (and girls), it’s just never been a real priority for him. He doesn’t know whether he wants to own up to that though; even if Derek already knows he’s a virgin and a bit of a geek, Stiles doesn’t want to seem… weak. Or easy, or something. Some part of his wants Derek to want this too –- want it more than Stiles strictly needs him to.

So Stiles doesn’t actually say anything, only buries his face in his folded arms and tilts his ass up, just a little.

He can feel his face and his neck and, please God not his actual whole body, turning red. He can feel Derek’s hot gaze on his back (on his ass), but he doesn’t press him for a response (at least not one in words). When Derek’s other hand lands on his ass, spreading and pulling apart, Stiles feels the involuntary spasm of his hole and can’t deny the twitch in his half-hard-again dick where it’s pressed sticky against the bed spread. Thinks about getting white stains on Derek’s blue sheets and has to hump his hips up a little to give himself room.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Derek says, hot breath against his skin and presses a wet kiss to the small of Stiles’ back.

Stiles’ cheeks try to clench in reaction but Derek’s hands keep him spread wide and open. He hears a dark little chuckle and almost arches right off the bed when Derek _spits_ on his hole, sticky-wet and slick, uses a thumb to spread it around and push it _in._ The rough pad of Derek’s thumb actually feels good there, rubbing at sensitive skin, and he expects to get it in there for real, a quick couple of fingers and then bam! Dick.

The broad, wet, stroke of Derek’s tongue then comes, understandably, as a surprise. It’s hot and wet and weirdly rough but spit-slick at the same time, and _shit_ , that’s got to be wrong, right? He should feel disgusted, but all he wants is to feel that tongue inside him _now._ And actually the pointed end of it goes in pretty easy, and Derek wriggles and rolls it until Stiles is speared and spread on the thick meat of his tongue.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Stiles whines, biting down on the spread and trying to get his knees up, get some leverage so he can hump his ass back into Derek’s face. “Fuck me, _fuck_ me, _please_. _”_ Though, yeah, maybe a little premature.

Derek’s got his face pressed as close to Stiles’ ask as it can get, rough scrape of stubble on the inside of his cheeks, and he just keeps thrusting his tongue deep into Stiles’ ass and tasting him inside. Somehow, Derek gets his lips sealed tight around the rim and just _sucks_ \- this incredible pressure out and in - and Stiles feels like he’s going to combust. Derek isn’t stopping him from humping the bed, or humping his ass on Derek’s tongue; he seems entirely caught up in eating Stiles’ ass, just going for broke.

“ _Please_ , _please_.” Stiles is full on begging now, no lie, but he can’t seem to care because this feels like nothing ever - feels like he’s on fire, and there’s only one way to put it out. “ _Derek,”_ he moans(fuck, is that the first time he’s said that name? It’s the first time he’s _cried_ it like that), “let me come, _please._ ”

He’s not sure why he’s asking for permission, just feels a need, a terrible fucking need, and Derek is the only one who can answer it.

The answer comes loud and clear when Derek lifts his head, lays one almighty slap right across Stiles’ cheeks and says, “Do it. Come.”

And Stiles fucking does, so hard it’s painful and all _over_ the sheets.

He doesn’t know if the blackness that follows is because he just came twice in ten minutes and literally blew his brains out, or if he’s just closed his eyes against the covers but as he’s floating there in euphoric bliss he hears a voice in the darkness--

“Did you like that?”

There’s a thumb circling soft and hypnotic around his wet hole and all Stiles can think is how the _fuck_ is Derek this articulate during sex? He’s not the wordiest fucker on his best days, but seems like when he’s actually _fucking_ he’s like the Man with the Golden Tongue.

In more ways than one.

“ _Yesss,_ ” Stiles says, because he believes in the importance of positive feed back, but it’s little more than a long slow exhalation of breath.

“Good,” Derek says, and slides in his thumb.

“ _Unnnnhf.’_ It feels different to his tongue, though that single digit still goes in pretty easy. Stiles’ ass almost sucks it in, ‘cos he’s still loose and wet from coming (and being fucked by Derek’s tongue), and he doesn’t think he can get it up again but he still wants more.

Derek’s not taking it easy on him, starts sliding that thumb in and out right away, pulling and pushing a little as Stiles’ rim stretches and clings. Stiles’ heartbeat starts to pick up again, and just when he’s feeling the urge to roll his hips into it, Derek curls his thumb, gives him a smart little smack and says, “Up.”

Stiles lifts his head, still a bit fuzzy and confused, and Derek repeats, “Up. On your knees.”

Stiles orders his liquefied muscles to move, pushes himself up with wobbly hands and shaky thighs and then almost collapses back down again with silent laughter when he realises. _Doggy Style_.

Derek’s kept his thumb teasing in and out of Stiles’ hole the whole time, spitting him slow and lazy as Stiles struggled to comply. “Do you want more?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the wall, clearly enunciates, “Yes.” Then he turns his head so he can watch Derek over his shoulder and says in a fluttering falsetto, “Please, Sir, can I have some more?”

Derek’s eyebrow is unimpressed. “You’re gonna need at least four before you can take my dick.”

 _Holy fuck,_ Stiles thinks. Derek practically wants to put a fist in his ass, and that’s only _just_ going to be enough?

Holy fuck.

Derek is still wearing his jeans for some reason, and Stiles is beginning to suspect that it’s to keep him from _freaking the fuck out_. What the hell has he gotten himself in for now? Derek’s still taking his _yes_ and running with it though, because he slides his thumb out and lets go of Stiles’ cheeks to slap his thighs further apart, comes right back at him with two fingers slick and a little cold with something new. He pushes them in deep and smooth and pushes a broken sound out of Stiles’ throat.

Stiles lets his head hang down between his shoulders and tries to draw in the air he desperately needs. Derek brings his other hand down between Stiles’ legs and cups his sore, spent balls. God, _shit¸_ he’s still sensitive there but Derek is gentle, rolls them in his palm real tender and rocks Stiles back onto the fingers in his ass. The third finger barely makes an impression on his consciousness, Stiles is just so zoned out on sensation, but he really _fucking_ feels it when the tip of Derek’s pinky starts teasing at his swollen rim.

“Oh fuck, oh _fuck,_ ” Stiles says, because more complex consonant and vowel sounds really aren’t making sense anymore.

“I said four,” Derek reminds him. “You can take it.”

Stiles is shaking, head hanging low, because _no_ , he doesn’t think he can.

Seems like maybe Derek knows him better than he knows himself now though, because Derek’s squeezing his fingers into a point and that pinky is slipping in – stretched so fucking wide and it _hurts,_ it _stings,_ but shit, yes, it’s _good_.

“Good boy,” Derek says, and all Stiles feels is a warm glow of pride and _most of a fist_ in his ass.

Those fingers are rocking, curling in his ass and pressing deep and heavy against that white-hot sparking something, sending bolts of sharp electricity up Stiles’ spine every time. Then Derek is pulling out, pulling away, and Stiles is left feeling bereft; loose and empty and wanting.

Finally, finally, he hears the sound of Derek’s zip, the soft noise of his jeans hitting the carpet, and then just the thunder of his own pulse in his ears.

There’s a discordant moment of hesitation – Derek is on the bed but not touching him, and Stiles is barely holding himself together but grits his teeth and keeps his ass in the air. He _wants_ it, and he wants it fucking _now._

Derek does put a hand on his ass again then, stroking softly, and clears his throat like it’s physically difficult to form words. “I’m clean,” he says.

Stiles can hear the wet-slick suck of a lubed-up hand on a dick, and it isn’t his. When he raises his head enough to see… _Shit_ , Derek wasn’t kidding.

Someone in this bed definitely has need of an extra extra large prophylactic (which, actually, is still in the back pocket of his pants), and it really isn’t him. Stiles gets a hand around the base of his dick and squeezes real quick because it turns out the fear of being broken open on a monster cock really does it for him. Seems he’s not only a virgin but a size queen too; who knew?

In his eagerness (and mind-numbing fear) to get that thing inside him, he doesn’t really think about the whole no glove no love conundrum for very long (damn, would a magnum even _fit?_ ). He’s stretched and ready and open and he needs to get fucked – for the sake of a long and happy life, if not a few minutes of _really_ enjoyable sin. And the thing of it is, he actually trusts Derek-– at least this much.

Wouldn’t trust Derek with his heart, or anything stupidly sentimental like that, but he is Alpha, and he clearly sees Stiles as some extension of pack. It was Derek who warned him, who told him to choose something easier than this, but Stiles has already made his choices. If this is offer and acceptance between them, a contract of bodies and minds, then Stiles is going to claim what’s rightfully his. 

“ _Please,_ ” he says, low and clear. Derek gives his cock a squeeze and moves closer on his knees, stroking his other hand up Stiles’ spine until they’re pressed thigh to thigh and Stiles can feel the huge thick length of him up against his crack.

“You’re going to feel this,” Derek says. Stiles actually snorts because, well, _no fucking duh_.

“Look at me!” There’s the edge of a growl in his voice and when Stiles looks, his eyes are edged with burning red. “You’re going to _feel_ this,” he says again, “and you’re going to know it’s me. My cock inside you, my body around you, and my _come_ on your thighs.”

Stiles brain fucking seizes, and he’s arching his spine, hissing and howling because the head of Derek’s cock is breaching his hole, and in that moment he growls, “You’re mine.”

There’s a ringing in his ears and Derek is working the whole insane, fat fucking length of his cock inside. Every muscle is screaming, his body protests, because it’s too big, too big, _too fucking big_. And then it’s in, Derek’s sharp hipbones pressed against his cheeks and Stiles feels so full he’s going to rip, split, tear apart on that dick.

“You’re okay,” Derek croons, stroking his back and his thighs with hot, gentle palms. “So _good_ , so _sweet_.”

Stiles is not okay – he’s not good, he’s not sweet, but he is entirely fucking _speared_ on Derek’s massive cock. And as that bright jag of pain starts to fade he realises that he _likes_ it, he does – likes the burning stretch of Derek’s dick in his ass, the hot, possessive sweep of his palms and the incredible feeling of being so powerful and so power _less_ at the same time.

“Fuck me,” he grunts. Likes the wicked bite of it in his mouth. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he hisses and feels the jerk of agreement in his cock.

“Tell me,” Derek says. “Tell me,” as he pulls out smooth and slow and starts rolling his hips, screwing that huge fucking dick back in his ass in a deliberate, inevitable, slide.

“ _Huge_ ,” Stiles moans. “So hard, so thick, so _good_.” So everything, so mine; he can’t say it all.

“ _Mine_ ,” Derek says, like he knows that he can, and fucks him harder, and deeper and _right_.

Their rhythm is building, slow and inexorable, and Stiles can feel the infeasible tightening of his balls again like he’s going to come or die trying, and soon.

“Don’t come until I tell you,” Derek growls as he rubs Stiles’ prostate just right.

“ _Please,_ ” Stiles cries, shameless and honest in his need.

Derek’s pounding his ass, nails digging into Stiles’ hips as he rocks him back into every thrust, fucks himself in so deep Stiles can feet it in his _spine_. He won’t stop, can’t stop, but there’s something else there – Stiles can feel the heavy swing of Derek’s balls against his ass, but there’s something growing, something swelling huge and hard between them and pushing, stretching at his ass.

Stiles’ brain may be broken, but that something is _not_ going to fit in his ass. He opens his mouth, can’t get words out around his panting breath, but Derek seems to know--

“Not this time,” he growls, and yeah there are sideburns and _teeth_ , “But soon. Soon I’ll have you tied on my dick, fill you up til you’re screaming and feed you my come, gonna knot you and breed you and leave you _begging_ for more.

What the fuck, Stiles would think – if he _could_ think at all. Instead he’s just grunting, swaying and moaning with each driving thrust until tears start to leak from the corner of his eyes and thin sticky precome dribbles in strings from his cock.

Derek just keeps giving him more, and more, until fuck, it’s _too much_.

And then, “ _Now,”_ Derek roars, sinks his teeth into Stiles’ neck and it’s all fucking over like _that_.

Stiles’ knees give out, and so does his brain because everything is black and swirling colours and Derek’s massive dead weight crushing him into the mattress. They lie there like that, Derek still in his ass, for a long quiet while.

Later, Derek finally softens completely and pulls out; smacks him sticky on the ass, and over the hot sting of it Stiles barely notices the little tickle of something else. Then Derek rolls off the bed and comes back a minute later with Stiles’ underwear in hand, and throws it at his head. “Put ‘em on,” he says.

Vaguely hurt, Stiles wriggles like a worm on the bed and gets the grey boxer-briefs over his ass, tucks himself in.

“Now leave them on,” Derek actually _god damn_ growls at him, “and don’t shower until tomorrow.”

Stiles is kind of fucking through taking orders here, and he’s about ready to go. When he stands up, though, he feels his face blaze immediately bright red because that is the slow, unmistakable trickle of Derek’s come down his leg.

“Don’t’ have to worry about getting sacrificed now,” Derek smirks, somewhat obnoxiously self-satisfied. “ _Everyone’s_ gonna smell it on you now.”

Stiles flips him the bird, but does actually do as he says. The next morning, when he’s rather gratefully climbing into the shower, he catches a flash of something in the bathroom mirror. High on his right ass cheek there’s a bold black ‘D’ riding the curve.

As it turns out, that asshole must have used permanent marker because try as he might, Stiles can’t scrub the thing off.


	3. The Difference Between Emotions and Emoticons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Tag for Season 3, Episode 4.

Stiles feels that once someone has taken your virginity and growled ‘mine’ at you a few dozen times, you should probably automatically get a key to their place. Right?

It’s been a couple of days since The Incident, which is what Stiles has taken to calling the whole sex-having thing because, frankly, it’s shorter than ‘The Devirginization’ and also makes minimally more sense. Add to that the fact that Stiles, as it turns out, didn’t actually have to worry so much about dying a virgin (or at least, dying _because_ he was a virgin) but may still have to worry about dying because he is one of three random people who share some other arbitrary characteristic, and everything has just gotten a little fucking confusing. He wasn’t really planning on telling anyone about the whole ‘touched for the very first time’ thing anyway but now he legitimately doesn’t have to; it’s almost like it never happened…

So he has no idea why he’s back at Derek’s door, wishing for a key. If wishes were horses, he’d probably have some pretty wicked saddle sores by now.

“Deeeereeeeek,” he sing-songs and scratches in his most annoying manner at the metal door.

It’s actually pretty late: chances are Derek’s either asleep or out terrorising the local inhabitants, but if he’s home Stiles is totally willing to wake the beast. The sound of his (persistent) scratching has that horrible nails-on-a-chalkboard edge -- and Stiles doesn’t even have super hearing. He feels quite satisfied with himself when the door swings open after just a few seconds.

“He’s all yours,” Isaac says, storming past with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a scowl firmly in place. “Be my _guest_.”

He double-times it down the hall and leaves the door swung wide in his wake. Through the doorway, on the far side of the room, Stiles can make out Derek’s broad back where he stands facing the window. He doesn’t seem to feel the need to comment on this unexpected scenario, nor to address Stiles – still standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway with hand raised – at all.

Seriously -- werewolves: can’t live with em’, can’t shoot em’ with a wolfsbane-laced bullet because they're really quite fast and Stiles has terrible aim.

“Okay.” Stiles steps over the threshold and lets the mild creak of the floorboards telegraph his slow approach. “So, what, he’s pissed because you didn’t want to buy any Girl Scout cookies? Is he gonna come back later and T.P. the rusted-out car wreck serving as your dock-yards-chic version of a lawn ornament?”

That's some prime material right there, but Derek doesn’t bother turning around.

“Isaac is _pissed_ because I asked him to move out,” he says plainly. “It’s not safe here anymore.”

The irony in implying a wolf’s den was a safe place at any time aside, that's kind of a piss poor explanation -- “Sorry,” Stiles blurts, feeling the crazy building up rapidly inside, “meaning he was, until like ten seconds ago, moved _in_?”

Derek shoots him a furrow-browed look over one should that suggests the what-the-fuckery of this situation is purely one sided. “He’s pack.”

 _Oh good,_ Stiles thinks, so it’s fine because they’re… keeping it in the family. _Shit_ , and that just makes everything sound a lot more fucked-up.

“So Isaac has been crashing at your place for, what--?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, a clear _where are you going with this_ , in his eyes. “A few weeks.”

“A few _weeks_ ,” Stiles repeats, voice rising uncontrollably, “and you didn’t think this was something you should tell me?”

Derek seems genuinely confused, but he’s clearly starting to get a little pissed off too. “Keep your voice down,” he says, “Cora’s asleep in the spare room.”

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Stiles shouts in an outraged stage whisper. “What is this, _Hotel for Dogs_?”

“Hey!” Derek sounds really pissed now, and he takes a menacing half-step towards where Stiles is still waving his hands about spastically in the Windmill of What the Fuck.

Well, Stiles is fucking pissed _too_ , and there comes with it a sort of deadly calm _._ “ _Sorry_ ,” he says with a definite sarcastic edge. “So who exactly had front row seats to our little show?”

Stiles doesn’t like the look of understanding that rolls over Derek’s face. “No one else was home that night,” he says slowly, clearly, and with a hint of sympathy that just does not sit well.

“But they _knew_ ,” Stiles retorts, pacing like a cat desperate to get out or tear the house down trying. “I bet this place smelled like the Littlest Godamn Gay Whorehouse in Texas.” 

Stiles can hear the hysteria in his own voice, but Derek is giving him Serious Face, and he sounds it when he says, “You may not be a virgin anymore, but that doesn’t make you a whore.”

“Yeah, thanks for that Ask Abby, but I’m not worried if you will or won’t respect me in the morning,” Stiles spits, “I’m worried about the people I have to see at fucking _school_ and during midnight romps through mortal peril!”

Derek has the good grace to look a little green at the word ‘school’ (yes, thank you, what’s the age of consent in California again?) but he crosses his arms over his chest all the same and scowls Stiles down.

“I told you,” he growls, “I _warned_ you, you’d be mine. The fact that everyone would know it was more than _implied_ –- and I thought pretty necessary to the whole exercise.”

“Yeah, well, turns out you didn’t save my life after all,” Stiles is almost hissing, back arched defensively, and he honestly doesn’t even know where this is coming from, “You just fucked me in the ass.” Wants to say _congratulations_ , or something witty - sharp and cutting - but he just feels trapped and the words won’t come when he needs them.

“I didn’t hear you complain.” Derek doesn’t sound angry anymore; he sounds almost… hurt.

In the midst of his inexplicable mental meltdown, Stiles is forced to recall that Derek did ask him – did warn him – and gave him plenty of chances to say no. Stiles is an expert at lying to others, but he’s never been real great at lying to himself. And it’s not just that. He doesn’t think there’s anything different in his face, or the way he walks – there’s no way he Dad could know – but, God, he’s just now realising that he’s been an idiot because he spun that reel of shit to Scott only the other day about still being virginally impaired, and Scott just _let_ him. He must have known, because Derek could smell it, and said he wanted _everyone_ to know. And, okay, so maybe Scott doesn’t know it was _Derek_ , but that’s only really a matter of time now, anyway.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Derek growls, kicking at a chair.

“Fucked if _I_ know!” Stiles shouts. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, but he’s not sure where this is going otherwise – doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to find out. He’s still pacing but Derek is further away now, fiddling with something on the table and not watching him freak out.

“Well that seems unlikely right now,” Derek says, dead-pan and deadly.

Stiles feels suddenly like a stupid kid, like he really is in over his head here. Again. After his mom died, he felt like he couldn’t do a single fucking thing right, like everything was his fault and everyone could just look at him and _see._ Scott and his dad and his therapist helped with that eventually, but Stiles still feels like a perpetual fuck-up on the inside. This is just one more thing to add to his list.

Why did he come here? Why did he go to Derek in the first place? The answer is simple, and he can't deny: he’d wanted it, maybe more than he needed it even -- and, if he’s honest with himself, he still wants it now. He can’t really be sure what it is he wants from Derek – that thought is scary and too big – but he knows that there’s not much chance of getting it now. Derek seemed interested in having a little fun but in reality Stiles has to try pretty hard to _be_ fun most of the time; he’s still ( _and maybe always_ ) a little broken inside.

There’s enough of a silence that Stiles starts to feel a literal and metaphorical chill in the air, and can’t think of what to say or do to fix this. Instead, he says, “I’m gonna go,” and turns his back as he heads for the door.

“You don’t have to,” Derek says to the window, quiet and low, and it makes Stiles pause but he doesn’t turn around. “You _are_ welcome here, anytime.”

Stiles hears an echo of Derek’s voice saying things like ‘pack’ and _mine_ ; there's an incontrovertible promise in those words - potential too - but there's still a palpable sort of reluctance between them, a resistance on one or both sides. Inevitable, then, that his feet don't stay to listen but keep carrying him on out the door and safely all the way home.

 

* * *

 

Later, as Stiles is fumbling for his house key, his phone gives a chipper little new text _ding_ from his back pocket.

|| sorry …||

It’s from an unknown number, but that in itself (combined with the lack of grammatical correctness and the fact that it isn’t a mysterious threat or random dick pic) suggests that Derek man’d-up and asked someone for his number. As that person was probably Scott, Stiles is now looking forward to a world of shit tomorrow at school. Derek probably doesn’t even know why he’s apologising, and frankly Stiles is a little unclear too. He’s still not feeling very charitable.

|| Bite me, Wolfboy. ||

Then, because he is still a teenage boy, and one with pretty mad txt skillz at that, he sends --

|| 8==D ()‘8) ||

Let Derek sit there scratching his head over that for a while. Stiles isn’t even angry anymore – he really was being kind of stupid about the whole thing – but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s this tight little ball of hurt or frustration or humiliation or something in his gut and he needs Derek to suffer too.

Stiles heads up to his room, dumps his stuff and jumps into the shower; tries not to think about how the bruises on his thighs got there, or the little patch of skin on his ass that now looks strangely bare. He’s towelling off his hair and doing the accustomed clean underwear treasure hunt when he notices the reminder flash of his phone where it’s lying forgotten on his covers.

Maybe Derek has more of a grasp of emoticons than he does emotions.

 _Oh snap!_ Stiles thinks to himself (because he’s actually not enough of a spazz to say it out loud). His sense of self-satisfaction kind of sizzles though when he slides to unlock and reads --

||   any time =)||

Stiles doesn’t know if that’s in response to the biting or the pictorial invitation to suck his cock (and, shit, is that a smiley face or a mouth with fangs?), but feels a stupid little tingle in his belly either way.

Clearly, he’s fucked.


	4. The Definition of a Martyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short (and not so sweet) - it's more of a vignette really, or maybe we'll call it an interlude for 3x5. I reworked this in light of 3x6, and if you read this previously, you'll note the next chapter has actually sort of been slotted in the middle of what I had.
> 
> Episode Tag for Season 3, Episode 5.

Once again, Stiles wasn’t there. He’s not stupid enough to think it would have changed anything if _had_ been there, but he’s seriously sick and fucking tired of feeling like a war bride left at home while the men folk - and Allison, it seems - go off to battle. The thing is –- the thing is he wasn’t there, he probably couldn’t have saved Derek and may have ended up Big Bad Wolf Bait himself, but he still feels like somehow it’s his fault. Not only is Derek ~~dead~~ gone but Scott is hurt and not getting better, the Alphas are still out there, and everything is just royally fucked-up.

Worse than that, he has no idea how to fix any of it. And worst of _all_ , they’re stuck on this insane Bus Ride from Hell when they should be out there looking for Derek, or barricading themselves indoors with mountain ash and wolfsbane, or something else productive. Instead, they’re cramming for their PSATs while Scott slowly bleeds to death and everyone else goes not so quietly crazy in a very confined space (and is now a bad time to be developing a tendency towards claustrophobia, or is that just his latent sense of self-preservation kicking in?).

Death in numbers – increasingly large numbers – seems to be trending in Beacon Hills, and Stiles has no desire to be counted in that number if there’s any other way out. Maybe it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge, sure, but he’s never really been the kind to turn and run (despite some recent strategic yet tail-between-legs retreats) and Beacon Hills has the unique attraction of housing everything he cares about in the world. That’s admittedly a short list at the moment: pretty much just Dad, Scott, (Lydia?) and his iPad. But only that last one is really portable, or at least willing to be being carried off to safety in his arms.   

Massacre. Bloodbath. Carnage. Slaughter. Butchery.

_Darach, Darach, Darach._

Really, they do have to talk about it sometime – but what is there to say?

He feels like he's grasping at straws here, playing some giant cosmic game of Jenga with everything just teetering constantly on he brink of collapse. Stiles is smart enough to recognise that there are forces outside his control at play here, forces much bigger than he, and much scarier and much, much stranger than anyone his age should ever have to contemplate, but this isn't something he can turn his back on now; he can't unlearn the existence of supernatural beings in the world, can't ignore the danger he and his friends and strangers he's never met are in. If Stiles has to be the side kick, or the one left at home to wait for word, then that's what he's got to do - what he's going to do - to be a part of something important.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Scott says to the barren landscape beyond the bus window, “I can’t believe Derek’s dead.”

Scott’s wounds may be obvious but Stiles feels like he needs to be stitched-up too; whatever is broken in him, though – whatever wound is raw and bleeding and leeching all the strength from his spine – it’s somewhere deep inside. It’s not the first time Scott’s said it, _he’s dead, can’t be dead_ , and it’s generally in keeping with the morose and all together morbid tone of the day so it’s lost some of the shock value, but then Scott turns to face him, flushed and a little wild-eyed (fever??), and says –-

“Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles is still listing off more eloquent synonyms for ‘shitty’ in his head, so the confusion that declaration causes is genuine. “For what?”

“For Derek,” Scott says, eyes widening significantly. “I know you guys were getting… close.”

There’s a subtle flaring of his nostrils and all of a sudden Stiles is reminded of his little epiphany about the scent-marking thing, and the revelation that Scott evidently posses a lot more tact than people generally give him credit for.   

“I--” Stiles starts, and then has to give his brain a second to catch up to his mouth. “I don’t know what we were, really.” He forces himself to take a breath and makes sure Scott can see the truth in his eyes when he says, “but I know whatever happened to him wasn’t your fault. I know Derek wouldn’t blame you.”

“You weren’t there,” Scott says wretchedly.

I know, Stiles thinks, feels a spike of something hard and unforgiving in his heart -- _I know_.

“No,” he says, despite the discomfort, “but _you_ were, and I know you did everything you could because that’s what you always do… that’s who you are, Scott.” Stiles lets himself blink slowly, not closing his eyes but simply taking a breath - one after another. “Sometimes,” he says (slowly, carefully), “things just get out of hand.”

Scott looks like he dearly wants to believe that, and Stiles feels a clenching in his chest at the reminder that Scott is still just a kid really, a kid like him - even if more and more it seems like he’s growing into something bigger than himself, some greater destiny maybe. Stiles knows, somewhere in the back of his brain or the bottom of his heart that Scott is going to be a real leader of the pack one day –- the kind of leader their rag-tag group really needs, the kind of leader Derek never really wanted to be. He hopes he’ll be around to see it.

Instead of saying that though, he turns back to the PSAT prep files, swipes a couple times, and says –

“Here’s a good one. How would you define the word ‘Martyr’?”


	5. Phantasms and Feelings in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really part of an extended/remixed version of the tag for episode 5 because the two were so closely related. If you previously read the last chapter, you may wish to do so again as changes have been made :) I've also added the text of XXL as an actual first chapter to ease readers' digestion.
> 
> If you have any ideas about where the porns and or feels may have occurred in the next episode (episode 7!) after it's aired, please feel free to drop a highly suggestive line in the comments :)
> 
> Episode Tag for Season 3, Episode 6.

 

Just around midnight, and it must truly be the Witching Hour in middle-of-nowhere motels anyway because people be acting crazy. Seriously, Boyd’s never been the most happy or well-adjusted of characters, but punching your hand through a solid sheet of glass just because you’ve got the munchies – that’s a whole new level of loco.

Stiles has never been one to look a gift-horse in the mouth though, so he grabs an armful of candy booty and high-tails it back to the room. When he pushes the door open everything’s dark inside; Scott’s not in his bed, so he must be out getting in to trouble somewhere.

For the moment, Stiles chooses to flip on the bed side lamp, spread his haul out on the slightly manky bed covers, and not think about it. He’s got some weird no-name cracker things, a retro-looking chocolate bar that may actually be from the 1950s, and an incongruously shiny Bounty that just goes to show there are no limits to the reach of Big Brand Corporate America, or to the profitability of specialised product placement.

Shame he hates coconut.

Stiles rips the packet of crackers open with gusto and coughs a little at the resulting cloud of -- _something_ –- that puffs out. It smells pretty good though, so he’s more than willing (stomach growling) to give it a shot.

“Greedy, greedy,” a voice says from the darkest corner of the room.

Stiles swallows the stale cracker on his tongue and tries not to swallow his tongue along with it. A form melts out of the shadows and Stiles’ heart stalls in his chest because it’s Derek.

“ _Derek!_ ” The exclamation rips itself raw and painful from somewhere deep inside and Stiles feels pale and shaky with the shock of it -- feels like he’s seen a ghost, because maybe he has.

It looks like him; like a dusty, half-dead version of the body Stiles knows, the body he’s felt close against, in, and around his own. Derek is as grey as his t-shirt, smudged with dirt and rent with four deep claw marks across his stomach and chest, which bleed sluggish black blood in the darkness.

“Sometimes you just can’t have your cake and eat it too,” Derek says, voice blurred around the edges like the sight of him before Stiles’ eyes – sharp and quavering at the same time, like he might suddenly fade away.

Stiles can’t move, can’t make his lips form words, and he’s frozen to the bed but every muscle is aching with the urge to get up, get out, get _something._

“You weren’t there and now your chance is gone,” the shade of Derek says, and in an instant he fritzes – blips – up and down and sideways at the same time, like the picture on a television with bad reception, and he’s standing right in front of Stiles, touching distance from the bed.

“You could have been part of something.” Derek’s voice echoes in shivers down his spine, one hand lifting until Derek’s reaching out to him, plaintive and chastening both. “You could have been mine.”

Derek just keeps staring at him with those dark, fathomless eyes, but Stiles feels the tease of ghostly fingers through his hair, the brush of tender lips against his own, and knows the trickle of a tear down his cheek is real as blood.

Derek’s head tilts hypnotically to one side and he whispers, “Join me.”

Then he’s gone, banished by the harsh glare of the overhead light flicking on.

“Where’d you get that?” Scott asks as he closes the door behind him.

Stiles looks down and sees – impossibly, inexplicably – that there’s a naked razor blade in his hand, cupped against his palm beneath curled, sheltering fingers. Sucks in a breath and looks at the bed beside him, fist closing casually against his thigh as the other scrubs absently across his cheek.

“Raided the ancient vending machine,” he hears his voice say. “Boyd helped.”

Scott parks himself on the other bed with a seeming lack of concern. “Ooh, _Bounty_ ,” he says, and darts a hand across to grab it up, werewolf-quick.

 

* * *

 

It all starts to make more – and less – sense after he gets Lydia’s text. After Boyd in the bath and Isaac under the bed and, obviously, Ethan in the abandoned motel room with the hand-saw, well it’s just another game of supernatural Cluedo they’ve got to play through til the end.

Of course, if they’re playing by the rule of threes then something isn’t exactly adding up here. Three werewolves, sure – but how does Stiles figure in all of this? He tells himself that Lydia’s gotten caught up in the game too, that maybe they’re both just collateral damage, but Lydia has a relatively long association with the voodoo hoodoo, and this is all pretty new to him.

That said, Stiles is pretty sure his part is played here – his role is done – and just when he lets himself focus on getting out, getting through, they get to the parking lot and find Scott with the lit flare, drenched in gasoline.

Time stops, then spirals forward. Allison is saying something, but Stiles doesn’t hear her because the spectre of Derek has returned, eyes dark burning holes, boring into him over Scott’s shoulder.

“He _killed_ me,” Derek howls, “let him _die_.”

No one else seems to have noticed.

Scott is still looking at the ground, words spilling out in a rambling murmur “…People keep getting hurt. People keep getting killed.”

And it’s true, it’s all true; maybe it’s no one’s fault, maybe the fault belongs to all of them, but people (innocent, guilty, just unlucky) keep getting killed. Death in numbers… death _by_ numbers: three, three, three.

Derek’s head appears again, tilted over Scott’s shoulder. His eyes are solemn now, no more howls, but his teeth are bared as he whispers, “You all deserve to die.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he deserves, but Scott doesn’t deserve _this_. No one deserves to die alone – or feeling it.

So Stiles takes a tiny step forward. “Scott, listen to me,” he says, “This isn’t you, right? This is someone inside your head telling you to do this.”

Someone, someone; who knows who Scott’s someone is, but it’s not him – not them – not Derek, it’s some other evil one.

The Derek Shade scatter-flashes again, from tousled hair and torn t-shirt to hooded skull-like thing and back, like someone’s changing the channel.

If Derek’s dead, if he died cold and alone somewhere, then this still isn’t what he’d want –- this isn’t the justice he needs, or the vengeance Stiles suddenly realises he himself hungers for.

If Derek _is_ dead, this thing still isn’t – _can’t be_ – him; it cannot speak with his voice.

So Stiles takes that step into the fire.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re just going to have to take me with you then.”

 

* * *

 

When Stiles wakes up later, cramped awkwardly in the sticky vinyl bus seats, he’s immediately disorientated–- heart racing because for a moment he could swear there’s the smell of something burning, and he’s paralysed with fear. When he actually manages to haul in a ragged breath, the air is clear but for the vague taint of old gym socks and the early dawn light is streaming in through wide, dusty windows. He does a quick head count and the others are all safely sleeping.

Stiles sighs and tries to pull his jacket a little closer around him, even though in the closed confines of the bus the temperature is already rising in anticipation of the desert day. Just as he manages to get almost comfortable, his phone gives a sullen _bzz bzz_ against his thigh: a reminder, and maybe that’s what woke him in the first place. Resentful, Stiles reaches a sleep-clumsy hand into his pocket and fishes out his passive-aggressively flashing cell -- but rockets all the way to full consciousness when he sees there’s a new message from an unknown number. Swiping to unlock, the message pops up:

|| still alive  ||

And while he’s staring at that, his phone buzzes again in his hand, message reverberating through skin and bone –

||  safe,. With friend||

It’s a different number, but it’s definitely Derek –- _has to be_ –- and Stiles feels all of a sudden like he can breathe again, even though he’d had no idea he couldn’t before. With the return of oxygenated blood to his brain though comes the thought: who the hell does _Derek_ call friend?

Why he doesn’t immediately wake the others, Stiles doesn’t know. Or, at least, his subconscious isn’t telling. Either way, it turns out to be just another secret he has to keep when Lydia literally blows the whistle on the whole wolfsbane contamination plot.  

So he says, “That’s how the _Darach_ got in their heads; that’s how he did it,” and throws the damned thing out the window.

Doesn’t mention that somehow that evil Druid guy got into _his_ head – tries not to think about why or how the wolfsbane could have affected him too. He really doesn’t want to die, though it may not always look like it. Still, he can never be sure exactly what was on his mind when he stepped into that circle and dared Scott to set them on fire.

Stiles doesn’t know what it all means yet, but he’s not ready for the others to know either.

 


End file.
